


Afternoon Visit

by Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel TV Universe
Genre: Claire Appreciation, Cooking, Frank Castle Cooks, Friendship, Gen, appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the DD kinkmeme, asking for Frank thanking Claire for patching him up by offering to cook for her. Claire needs ALL the appreciation, so I'm very here for this idea</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afternoon Visit

Claire almost doesn't open the door. He's a large, intimidating figure through her peephole, dark in the crappy lighting in the hallway, his face further shadowed by a black ballcap.

It's late afternoon, she's only just woken up after her post-nightshift sleep. Was looking forward to turning over for another hour of snoozing. She does not feel up to vigilante bullshit right now - as if she ever does. And he doesn't look like he's bleeding out on her doorstep.

But. He's carrying a bulging bag of groceries from her local supermarket. And as if he senses her looking at him - she wouldn't put it past him - he looks up and directly at the peephole, letting the light fall on his face.

He looks better than the last time she saw him, a week ago. The cut she stitched up is healing well and the bruises are nearly faded.

She's curious enough about why he'd be here, in daytime, ostensibly not in need of her help, that she sighs and opens the door, keeping it on the chain.

His eyes widen a little when he takes in her sleep-mussed hair, her sweatpants and old tee.

"Did I wake you?" he says, voice soft and low, not as gruff as she remembers. "Didn't think of your shifts, if I--" he makes a motion as to leave, making the offer.

She studies his face a long moment. He does look better, the blood washed off, shaven. He's not in the armour. And she's still curious about the groceries.

"Why'd you come?" she asks, stifling a yawn behind her hand. "Don't look like you're bleeding."

"I, uh--" he looks like he's regretting whatever impulse brought him to her doorstep. Rubs the back of his neck. "Wanted t'say thanks. For--" he gestures in the direction of his forehead, where she stitched the wound he couldn't manage himself.

"..say thanks with groceries?" she asks, feeling herself smile a little. This is... this is new, is what it is. People acknowledging that she deals with their cloak and dagger shit in the deep of the night, cleans their bloodstains from her apartment after.

"'f you want," he says. Hesitates. "Thought I could cook for you. If you like."

 

If you'd asked Claire how she imagined the Punisher to say 'thank you for patching me up' her first answer would have been 'not' and then she would have thought of something heavy-handed and invasive. Waking up to flowers on her kitchen table maybe, or hell, the body of an enemy on her doorstep.

Not this careful offer of making her dinner, mindful of her boundaries and ready to take no for an answer if she didn't want him in her space.

"Mm. That sounds... yeah," she says after a moment. Closes the door far enough to take off the chain, and then opens it to let him in.

She'd forgotten how much space he takes up, even once he's taken off his jacket and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. He's not even that tall, just has a lot of presence. He puts down the groceries and says

"Bolognese or Chana Masala, ma'am?" and she blinks for a moment at the surreality of this before she realises he's offering her the choice.

"Ate bolognese the other day," she shrugs, because if somebody is going to cook for her she honestly doesn't care much what it is.

"Chana Masala then?"

She yawns again as she nods, and his lips quirk up a little.

"Don't need ta... this'll take a while. If you wanna take a nap, I'll wake you when it's ready."

On the one hand she kind of doesn't want to miss the strange spectacle of the Punisher in her kitchen, cooking her a meal. On the other hand she's still sleepy, not quite caught up on sleep hours after her 36 hour shift. And waking up to a home cooked meal honestly sounds amazing. So she compromises and brings her pillow over to the couch, curling up comfortably while she watches him move around in her little kitchen.

 

He's humming quietly as he inspects her pans and pots, taking the largest one. Rummages in the groceries and takes out a couple of bags of spices, measuring something from each and mixing it together in one of her cereal bowls. He doesn't seem to have a recipe to reference to, and only belatedly she considers that he's apparently a good cook. It seems strange, ill-fitting with what she knows of his.. activities as the Punisher. A piece from the man he used to be, maybe. She can't imagine he has much occasion for cooking, these days.

She shouldn't feel this comfortable with a known killer in her kitchen, but she strangely does, and dozes off to the small, domestic sounds of onions getting chopped.

Claire half-wakes a while later to the smell of fried onions and garlic, and she watches sleepily as he adds the bowl of spices to the pan, stirring it into the mix. The scent fills her entire apartment, and she makes an appreciative sound.

He hears, and shoots her a small grin.

Claire snoozes some more.

 

The next time she wakes he is sitting at her kitchen table, reading a book. The pan is bubbling on the stove, and the kitchen looks like he's washed up the prep stuff already. There's one place set at the table, and she blinks herself into wakefulness.

"You're not staying?" she rubs at her face, trying to wake up properly.

"Point was to cook for you," he shrugs. "Didn't want to..."

Impose? Assume?

"Looks like there's plenty," she says, ambling to the kitchen. The food smells amazing, and there's a flatbread sitting ready to go in the preheated oven. She slides in the bread, her stomach definitely coming awake at the scents.

"Yeah, it's not really a recipe for small batches," he nods from where he's sitting. "Seem to recall it freezes well though."

"Been a while since you had it yourself?" she asks, and then regrets it, because his eyes lose their animated shine. Memories of his family, of course.

She leaves him to it for a little while, goes to the bathroom, ties back her hair. Then she comes back and adds a plate and cutlery for him, and he gets up to take the bread out of the oven.

 

They don't talk as they eat, except for small comments about the food. He warns her about the whole cardamon pods. It's delicious and she tells him so. Having a home-cooked meal with Frank Castle is strangely comfortable.

"Used to dream about cooking this. When I was overseas," he says when he is doing the dishes.

"Cooking dreams?" she smiles.

"Yeah, it's uh-- spend that long eating MREs and chow hall food, you start to really miss... it's a sensory thing. And bein' in control of what you want to eat, I guess."

"That makes sense," she nods, eyeing the five portions that are cooling down before they go into the freezer. "Hey, if you start missing it again..." she shoots him a grin, "no need to get yourself cut up first, all right?"

He barks a rusty laugh.

"Fair deal, Ma'am."

**Author's Note:**

> And because food stories aren't complete without recipe: http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2010/02/chana-masala/
> 
> The moment where the spices go into the pan does indeed smell like magic.


End file.
